To Pull Away From Your Glow
by YourLeananSidhe
Summary: POV of female character who has a brief relationship with Oswald Cobblepot during Cassandra's (fanfic: Before & Beyond Pain & Prejudice: A Reimagining, Parts 1 & 2) absence. She is there only to fill a void and finally realizes it.
She had tried to ignore it for so long, but the unrelenting verity just kept gnawing at her brain and made her heart feel as if it was turning in on itself. Her spirit wanted to collapse, and outwardly reflected this attitude through her slumped posture. She sat curled-up on the couch, pretending to read from a book she was holding, but stealthily peering at him from over its ridge, watching him at his desk as he manipulated his computer—his face iridescent from the screen, the flickering of the LCD light evoking a Poltergeist-reminiscent illumination of his countenance. The only sound in the room was the persistent tapping of his fingertips against the plastic keyboard.

Even parted from him within her spirit (her own reluctant _but very wise_ decision, by the way), he mesmerized her. An accidental Svengali. He would laugh at the comparison, if he knew, calling it nonsense and blushing under the assumption that his primal powers surpassed the shrewdness and hard work he was accustomed to, but secretly pleased with the assessment.

She had invested too much, blissfully ignoring her own innate warning.

He had experienced a loss. He would not talk about it. He bore into work more than he did into her. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally too. The man just flat out did not care. Those attitudes put people at risk, put her at risk.

 _So this is what it feels like when the one you love cares not one iota about you. When that realization hits, it does not seem real. It is surreal. A nightmarish, watery dream. When his cause is more important than actual facts, or your own safety. When his misguided quest—a selfish and hypocritical call to action—sets the stage to further endanger an entire group of already targeted people. When compromise is a dirty word and total domination is the only acceptable approach. Common sense takes her last breath before she howls a dying plea, only understanding too late that principles once cherished as sweet-smelling flowers are despised and sentenced to be poisoned, and that choking weeds are now the chosen ones to be cultivated, impersonating prize winners at the county fair—the promise of a blue ribbon to the one who squeezes away truth and life and goodness the quickest. A vice so deeply buried, it is more treasure than shame_.

Yes, she carried her own vices, but found them to be more burden—something to be freed from, rather than something to be defended . . . celebrated. _Of course, one must recognize them as vices first_ , she thought _. We all have them. It is expected, unavoidable, inevitable._

 _I fear all vices will be virtues soon_ , she lamented.

She was beginning to feel the split in the fabric. She could sense herself detaching from him, slowly ripping herself away.

This was inevitable too. She had known that from the start. They were never of the same cloth anyway. More like two pieces loosely stitched together.

He was oblivious.

Once, in a moment of weakness, she had penned him a love letter. His patronizing grin was awful. What was worse was the way he tried to cover it up. Pretending to be touched. What was worse than even that, was knowing that he was trying. Acting out the part the best he knew how. She was a colostomy bag—not wanted, but needed—to fulfill a function. He would tolerate her for his own purpose.

She had never grasped what that was yet. Perhaps to comfort some existential plea to reaffirm his ego?

Worst of all was realizing he would never respond to her in kind. No love letter, no love, not even sincere affection of the slightest kind. Just him going through the motions like a programmed robot, a cold kiss to her, then off to shake hands with the privileged of the city or posing for pictures with those who wanted to gain his influence and be in his good graces.

Mechanical.

Repetitive.

Every day was a rerun of those obsequious individuals who chose to flatter and grovel and tell him whatever he _wanted_ to hear, not what he _should_. Sometimes he would "rid" himself of the sages and the truth-tellers and the foolishly brave ones who dared to oppose him. She had been lucky for some reason—he had held his scepter out to her and she had survived. _But for how long_? Maybe she lived because he never took her seriously or did not consider her a threat or had never taken notice of her at all. Not really.

She loved him. Would continue to love him. It would not stop, even though he despised her. Deeply. It was obvious to her if not to him.

 _I wish the best for you. Even if you never spare a flitting thought of concern for me._

This mantra played in her head as she unwound herself from her spot on the cushions. It continued as she lay the book down on the indention her body had left in the worn leather. She contemplated it as she sighed and issued a mental checklist, verifying for the umpteenth time that she had packed only her things— _only hers_ , nothing of his, and nothing he had ever given her.

He let out a shout. Apparently, something had irked him, judging from the harsh way the clicked the mouse, and she glanced at him, hoping he would give her the time of day, maybe apologize for his callousness earlier. Tell her he had ruminated on his actions and had concluded that he was wrong indeed. Or at least tell her she was right on a point or two. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before returning to his attention to the screen.

She studied him one last time. He was lovely to look at. It was always his eyes that got to her. Like in that Elton John song where the musician sings about the color of someone's eyes, confessing that he cannot remember if they are green or blue. She stared at the man at the computer—his eyes seemed to be both colors all the time.

The singer goes on to croon: ". . . yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen . . ."

She would take that with her—the memory of his eyes. Even though they masked malice, she would live in the dream that they hid a soul as sweet as she hoped he really was.

 _Maybe I should say good-bye, but he probably would not even notice._ Would not gift her with a quick peripheral glimpse or acknowledge her presence . . . or absence.

She was nothing to him.

When she twisted the knob, walked out the door, and closed it behind her without so much as an inquiry from him, she swallowed the sob that threatened to erupt from her throat and realized that for once, where he was concerned, she was right.


End file.
